


Ratios, Decimals, and Percentages

by fuchs



Category: Hawaii Five-0 (2010)
Genre: And a tiny hint of smut but really not much don't get your hopes up, Crack and Ridiculousness, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-06-03
Updated: 2016-06-03
Packaged: 2018-07-11 22:27:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,448
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7072990
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/fuchs/pseuds/fuchs
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which Steve takes an internet quiz and slowly loses his mind. Danny's okay with it.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ratios, Decimals, and Percentages

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Daydreamingworldsunknown](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Daydreamingworldsunknown/gifts).



> Special birthday ficcery for the bae. This show is ruining my life and I'm determined to take you down with me, Trina! 
> 
> This is my first foray into the Hawaii Five 0 fandom, so be gentle with me. Also I've tried my best to stick to American spelling but some words may have snuck through unnoticed.

This was all Stella’s fault, completely and utterly. When this whole ordeal inevitably ends in a hail of bullets and Danny screaming himself hoarse in the background (because this is Steve’s _life_ , which means everything always ends in metal projectiles and rage) Steve is going to place the blame solely and squarely upon Danny’s sister. She was the one who sent the email in the first place.

Technically, Steve could also blame Danny himself for this. Danny was the one who, hands slashing at thin air, forehead vein visibly throbbing, informed Steve that he could clean up his own fucking mess for once, and that Danny would not under any circumstances, would not under _fear of death_ be filing the paper work on this one.

So, Steve had been left to his own devices at HQ with incident reports to painstakingly fill out and a department administration manual that was, according to Danny, as thick as Steve’s skull. But see, the thing was, there were codes. There were certain numbers that needed to be put in certain boxes, and the numbers were all different, and they were all different _again_ depending on the boxes they were put in. And Steve didn’t work Naval Intelligence for nothing, okay, he is _smart_ , he knows his way around a computer. But the numbers and the boxes. They confused him.

So he did what any rational person faced with unrelenting bureaucracy would do. He snuck into his partner’s office looking for some way to weasel out of his predicament. Steve was absolutely certain that, after working together as long as they had, Danny had compiled some form of cheat sheet. He’d probably started it less than a week after Five-0 was established. He’d primly informed Steve on the third case they’d worked together that there were seven different codes which all loosely translated to ‘gratuitous property damage’ and he’d already memorized each of them. So Steve _knew_ , with complete confidence, that Danny had a neatly typed CliffsNotes version of the most relevant codes and their various meanings squirreled away somewhere.

Steve just had to find it.

And pray that it mentioned the code for ‘we sprung a convicted felon out of prison in the hope that he would reveal a tidbit of information pertinent to our investigation but he got the drop on us and now he’s on the lamb. Again. For the third time. Possibly the fourth. Who’s keeping score anymore, really?’

Honestly, _fuck_ Sang Min. Steve could probably get away with blaming everything on him too. And on the drug-runner du jour using undocumented immigrants as his preferred product mules.

There was, in fact, a whole series of instances and events, all of which _other people_ were directly accountable for, that lead to Steve silently flipping open his partner’s laptop and typing Gracie’s birth weight into the little password box.

Steve hadn’t been expecting Danny’s personal email account to be already open on the screen, and he’d had every intention of respecting his friend’s privacy and exiting out of the program. But then he’d seen the reply Danny hadn’t gotten around to sending before shit had hit the fan, as it was wont to do on any day ending in –y on Oahu.

_I cannot believe you’d send this to me, what is **wrong** with you?_

And Steve, he was concerned. He was concerned for his partner, and concerned for his partner’s sister, and concerned for the relationship between his partner and his partner’s sister, given that his partner was evidently so horrified by whatever his sister had sent him. In general, Steve was very concerned.

Also a little bit curious, but mainly concerned.

So he’d taken a moment to listen for anyone stirring in the bullpen, sent a furtive glance through Danny’s office blinds, and then pulled Danny’s desk chair forward, sat down, and clicked back to the original email Stella had sent.

There was nothing but a link.

And Steve hadn’t been familiar with whatever this Buzzfeed website was, but he’d thought it had to have been something pretty serious, judging by Danny’s reaction to it.

So Steve had clicked on the link.

And god how he wished he hadn’t.

**************

All of that had lead to this, here and now, sitting stiffly in the driver’s seat as Danny conducts a veritable symphony in the seat beside him, accusing Steve of having a death wish, accusing Steve of trying to take Danny down with him, smacking the back of his hand off the sun visor in front of him and not even noticing because his face is turning purple and he’s slowly running out of oxygen.

Steve says something contrary, just to get Danny to stop and _breathe_ for a second, but he couldn’t for the life of him tell you what that contrary something is because all that’s going in circles around his mind is _‘What Per Cent Bottom Are You?’_

It’s all he’s thought about for days, ever since he clicked on that link and then proceeded to _take the fucking stupid quiz_. He’s not even going to try and blame his concern-slash-curiosity for this one. No, he’s just an _idiot_ , Steve can acknowledge this.

If Steve had been maybe, quietly, privately, a little bit crazy about Danny before, well, he’s gone completely off the deep end now.

Because when Danny contorts himself into crazy shapes to reach a burner phone hidden underneath a bed at a crime scene, all Steve can think is _‘What Is Your Favorite Sex Position?’_ When Danny does inappropriate things with his tongue while licking malasada crumbs from around his mouth, all Steve can think is _‘Do You Prefer To Rim or Be Rimmed?’_ When Danny bends a trigger-happy jewel thief over the front of a patrol car, enthusiastically reciting the Miranda rights and pointedly glaring at Steve, all Steve can think is _‘Where Is Your Favorite Place To Have Sex?’_ And every single morning, _every single morning_ , when Danny struts into HQ, fingers playing with the silk knotted around his neck, all Steve can think is _‘What Are Your Thoughts On Being Tied Up During Sex?’_

“Babe?”

“I think I could like it.”

Silence reigns. And Steve comes back to himself with his hands white-knuckled on the steering wheel, parked in the driveway of his own house, engine still running. Danny’s half out of the car already and Steve doesn’t even remember driving home, his thoughts a hazy mess of _tied up during sex, I think I could like it._

_Shit._

“You think you might like… turning the car off and walking inside this lovely home you’ve got here, right in front of you?” Danny says slowly, eyes narrowed suspiciously, squinting like he’s trying to read Steve’s mind.

Steve nods, not trusting himself with actual speech, and climbs out of the Camaro.

He strides straight inside and right through to the lanai, pausing only briefly in the kitchen to pull some steaks out of the fridge. He concentrates on staying in the moment, on checking the grill and turning the meat and asking Danny inane questions about Grace’s latest hobby (it’s human anatomy, at the moment, and Steve is praying Gracie has the good sense not to tell her dad about the time he showed her how to incapacitate someone in two swift moves). He sips his beer and watches the waves and pretends he doesn’t notice how Danny’s watching him, never breaking off his constant chatter about anything and everything, but never taking his eyes off Steve either.

Steve feels like he hasn’t taken a full breath all night, at least not until they’re in their customary chairs down on the beach, condensation from a chilled beer dripping through Steve’s fingers and onto the dark sand below. Danny has finally run out of words, quiet like he only is when he’s got a pleasantly full belly and a gentle buzz running through his veins.

Quiet like he’s been lulling Steve into a false sense of security.

“So, what’s wrong with you?” And it’s said so calmly, almost serenely, and yet Steve can hear the demand in the question all the same.

“What?” Steve plays dumb. It’s his best defense, or so Danny says, and most of the time Steve resents that insinuation but right now he’s going to try and make it work for him.

“Seriously, you’ve been acting strange, even for _you_ , all week. And you know, I’ve given you the benefit of the doubt, given you space, given you time to sort through your obvious emotional constipation, because I’m courteous like that, I’m a courteous guy, but now I’ve grown a little bit impatient –”

“You? Impatient? Really?”

“ – because it’s Friday night and we successfully arrested a scumbag today and I’m drinking a nice cold beverage and I really do not have the energy to pretend not to notice your crazy.” Steve has started worrying about blood oxygen levels again. “So, if you could, please, just explain your crazy so that I can help you deal with your crazy, that way you can go to sleep with another hour’s worth of free therapy under your belt and I can go to sleep without worrying that your crazy will lead us all down the road of fire and blood.”

Fire. And blood. Jackals and hyenas.

“Did you take drama in school?”

“ _Steven_.”

“What? It’s a valid question.”

“It is not a valid question,” and here Danny sits up straighter in his chair, planting his beer bottle in the sand and turning to face Steve head on, _shit_ , “it is a distraction technique, a diversion, a ploy, and I will not fall for it,” the forehead vein has made a reappearance, “I will not be swayed or dissuaded from my mission to uncover just what kind of crazed McGarrettiness I’m dealing with here –”

Danny’s voice is steadily rising as his rant builds up steam, and all Steve can think is _‘How Loud Are You In Bed?’_

“ – because I have time, and I have resources – ”

_‘Do You Own A Dildo/Vibrator/Butt Plug?’_

“ – and I have a change of clothes in the trunk of my car – ”

_‘Do You Own A Jockstrap?’_

“ – and I can order in all the food I need to survive – ”

_‘What Color Is Your iPhone?’_

“ – and what all of this _means_ , Steven, is that I can stay right here for a while, I can stay here all weekend if I have to, if that’s what it takes to _get to the bottom of this_.”

“What per cent bottom are you?”

**************

Steve only realizes he’s asked that question out loud when Danny chokes on the breath he was taking.

Pure, unadulterated horror nearly stops Steve’s heart in his chest.

“Excuse me?”

Steve can’t catch a breath, his lungs shriveled like raisins inside his chest, that squirmy feeling deep in his gut like he’s back in The ‘Stan, praying that his truck makes it back to base without anything blowing up in his face.

Danny’s wearing that look of complete disbelief he wore when he first heard that Grace wasn’t being taken away from him again, like he just can’t fathom the words being spoken to him. Like he’s trying to decipher Pidgin.

He clears his throat. “Run that by me one more time.”

“I– That– Do you want another beer?”

Danny sticks his jaw out and sucks his top lip into his mouth, squinting at Steve. “See, I don’t believe that was the original question you asked me.”

It’s definitely time for a tactical retreat. Steve has chased shoe-bombers around the world, he knows these things.

“I’m gonna go get another beer.”

He jumps out of his chair and makes it two steps up the beach before there’s a grunt from behind him and fingers wrapped around his ankle and Steve’s falling face first into the sand. Then there’s a flurry of movement and Danny scrambling up his body, sitting himself down right in the middle of Steve’s back, knees bracketing Steve’s ribs and hands pressing down onto Steve’s shoulders.

Steve needs to spit crushed plumeria petals and ground up bits of shell out of his mouth before he can ask, wholeheartedly, “ _what the fuck?_ ”

“Have you been _snooping_ around my laptop?”

“Are you actually _sitting on me?_ ”

“Did you _read my personal emails?_ ”

“Was that a flying tackle? Did _you_ just flying tackle _me?_ ”

“I ankle tapped you, completely different maneuver– ”

“That’s not the point, Danny, the point is– ”

“ _Steven_.” His voice is a low growl, right next to Steve’s ear, and Steve has to bite back a whimper to preserve his dignity.

Not that he’s got a great deal of dignity left to preserve.

“Steven, did you just ask me what per cent bottom I am?”

“No.”

He can feel Danny shifting his weight, getting down lower, and suddenly there’s a hot breath across his cheek and stubble tickling across the sensitive shell of his ear.

Steve’s about to die, he really is, his heart is beating so hard he’s surprised that the grains of sand aren’t jumping up and down with the vibrations.

“Steven. Do you know what per cent bottom _you_ are?”

“…No.”

Danny’s hands move off Steve’s shoulders and land in the sand either side of Steve’s head. Steve can see individual grains caught in the fine blond hairs at his wrist, his muscular forearms straining as they take more of his weight.

“Steven.” He feels something warm and wet at the corner of his jaw, slight pressure and then nothing. “Did you get a high percentage?”

Steve chokes on sand as he gasps. “No.”

Teeth biting at his earlobe, lips against his skin, and Danny’s voice so close it sounds like it’s coming from inside his head, like a dream come to life.

“Are you lying to me, Steven?”

“ _Yes_ ,” Steve whispers.

Suddenly Danny’s heat is gone entirely and Steve’s pounding heart, raisin lungs, squirmy tummy all drop down to somewhere around his knees. Then there are hands gripping at his bicep and he’s being flipped onto his back and he has a split second to wonder if he should cover his face before Danny drops down to sit on him again, this time straddling his hips.

“See, unlike you, Steven, I myself am not suckered in by pointless internet surveys, so I do not actually know what per cent bottom I am.”

Then his lips settle into a dirty, _filthy_ smirk and he cants his hips forward and back against Steve’s crotch and oh, _oh_.

“But I’m willing to find out.”

**************

Surprisingly, considering Steve’s life, this whole ordeal does not end in a hail of bullets. Danny does absolutely scream himself hoarse though.

**Author's Note:**

> come and be my friend on [tumblr!](http://www.mermaid-reyes.tumblr.com)


End file.
